Sleeping Angel
by Annie-chan
Summary: Shortfic. The Phantom has brought Christine down to his lair under the opera house, and now watches over her as she sleeps.


**Author's Notes:** I have loved _The Phantom of the Opera_ for several years now. I had never seen Andrew Lloyd Webber's stage show in person, but I have the CD recording of the original 1986 London cast, and I've read Gaston Leroux's novel which started it all. Now, I've recently seen Sir Andrew's movie, and I think it is an excellent film. The cast was very emotive, the music was superb, and the sets were fantastic. I was very moved. Anyway, enough advertising for the movie. I've been inspired to write this fanfiction, and perhaps it'll get me back into the writing habit. Here's hoping.

Those of you who know the story need no explaining, but those who don't wouldn't know what's going on. As a brief explanation, I will say here that the Phantom has brought Christine down to his lair under the Opera Populaire, and she is now sleeping, watched over by her dark angel. It's before she snatches his mask from him, so their relationship has not yet begun to sour.

_The Phantom of the Opera_ (or _Le fantome de l'opera_) belongs to the copyright holders, not me. I'm just letting my mind wander for a while with these two tragic lovers.

**Sleeping Angel**  
By Annie-chan

It was near perfect silence in the bowels of the Opera Populaire. There was no wind to stir the waters that half-filled the rooms and passageways, and it seemed as if even the rats and other pests that infested these subterranean chambers had grown still.

His hand shook slightly as he set his quill to the blank music sheet. An angel lay in dreamless slumber only a few yards from him, and he was loath to wake her. Often, when he was composing, he played out bits of music as they came to him before writing them down, seeing if they sounded as good in reality as they did in his head. It was rare indeed that he found flaws, but it was a habit he had fallen into. Now, however, he was afraid of disturbing the girl he had brought down here, so he did not play.

The beginnings of an opera were slowly being pieced together, lying about him on random music sheets. He had written countless pieces of music in his solitude under the opera house, but all were self-contained, relatively brief. This new music, contrarily, could not be expressed by just a few bars of notes or lines of song. It was slowly becoming a full-fledged story, but things were still in their earliest stages.

_A love story_, he thought, putting the quill down. _What is the title? Who are the characters? How will it end?_ His mind was always working, always thinking over a dozen things at once. It kept him occupied in the cold darkness of his home.

He was distracted, however, and his fingers did not stop shaking when he put the quill down and pushed the paper aside. He was not surprised when he realized he was trembling all over. He took a deep breath, trying to will himself to relax, but it only partially worked. Looking back over his shoulder, he gazed at the sheer black drapes that hid the sudden opera star he had brought into his inner sanctum.

_Christine Daae._ Her name was the sweetest he had ever heard. He had heard some of her father's music not long after first coming to this opera house, but when he first saw the violinist's little orphaned daughter praying to her father's spirit in the small chapel, his heart had nearly broken. He couldn't bear to let her see him, but he spoke to her, seeking to comfort the child, stave off her grief for her. Those gentle words had somehow turned into singing lessons, and he found himself falling deeper and deeper into love with her as the years changed her from a gawkish little girl into a lovely young woman. The name of Daae was no longer associated with violin expertise, but an achingly beautiful voice.

She was also a graceful dancer. True, she was young and still learning, but she had great promise. Madame Giry had trained her well.

A faint smile came to his face. Madame Giry had saved him from that awful Gypsy fair, and sympathized with him somewhat. It was the closest thing to compassion he had ever experienced, and he was grateful to her for it. In spite of that, no one, not even she, knew what it was he thought of, what went through his mind. At least half the people at the opera house didn't believe he even existed.

_Especially our new managers_, he thought, the slight smile twisting into a sneer. What a nuisance. He disliked them right from the start. One seemed unduly self-important, and the other was just an idiot. They would be more of a hindrance than anything else.

He stood up, slowly crossing the distance between him and the sleeping Christine. Tonight's performance had been the culmination of his years as her teacher and hers as his student. She had, through a fortunate twist in fate, snagged the leading role in an anticipated opera, and the audience had adored her. Her first performance in a starring role had gone perfectly. He couldn't have asked for anything more.

He could ask for one thing less, however. Raoul, the young Vicomte de Chagny, he could quite do without. The opera house's new patron seemed to have known Christine when they were children, and thought that gave him certain rights. It was annoying enough that the fool had sat in Box Five after the new managers had received instructions to keep it empty, but it was a minor sin compared to what happened after. He had visited Christine in her dressing room, engaging her in a conversation that was entirely too friendly for her unseen guardian's taste. Then came the proposal of dining together. The boy hadn't even invited her, assuming she would go with him, laughing when she tried to protest.

_The Angel of Music is very strict indeed, boy_, he thought bitterly as he raised the black curtain, _and he does not like it when one threatens to take away what is rightfully his._

His face softened as he looked upon Christine's sleeping countenance. Despite the shocked faint she had fallen into, her face was a perfect portrait of peacefulness.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered softly, almost silently, as he knelt beside her. His heart trembled whenever he saw her, heard her voice. Never before tonight had she seen him, nor had he touched her before. When first her small, pale hand touched his gloved fingers, he had needed all his willpower not to squeeze too tightly. The last thing he needed was to frighten her away.

He looked down at his hands. They were bare, and his fingers tingled slightly with the cold of the damp air. Slowly, almost fearfully, he reached toward her, gingerly touching her cheek. Her skin was warm, and he almost snatched his hand back, afraid his icy touch would wake her. He didn't, however.

"He will not have you, my angel," he murmured, gently stroking her cheek. "I have warned him, and if he is foolish enough to pursue you still, an unfortunate accident may befall our young patron." He became so distracted with angry thoughts toward Raoul that he stiffened in surprise when Christine laid her little hand over his. She was awake! No, wait…she was still asleep. He sighed in relief.

"Mm…" she purred, dreaming. "Papa…"

His heart squeezed. She was dreaming of her father, her kind and loving father. He hated to think of himself as jealous of Christine, but he couldn't deny that he was wounded deeply by his lack of parents. He couldn't remember either of them at all. They must have abandoned him, repulsed by his horrible face. It was hard to blame them, but even harder to endure the pain of knowing your own parents didn't want anything to do with you.

"You think I am a gift from him," he sighed, "an angel sent from Heaven by your father." He shook his head sadly. He was no angel, no divine presence from above. Dispelling her illusion was out of the question, however. How could he destroy a notion she held as precious as her childhood memories? It would break her heart, and his heart would also crumble to see such sorrow in her eyes.

If there was one angel in the Opera Populaire, it was this sweet girl sleeping in his bed.

Her fingers had curled loosely around his hand. He so wanted to stay with her, but it would be unwise. She may be frightened to wake up with him bending over her, and might assume he had the worst of intentions in mind. He didn't want to scare her away. Not now, not ever. Gently extracting his hand from her grasp, he stood and drew the curtain back down.

_Guide and guardian_, he thought, reclaiming his seat and pulling the music sheets toward him again. _Guide and guardian…that's what she calls me._ He set his jaw and picked up the quill again, setting it to the paper. His hands were now steady, resolve taking the place of his uncharacteristic nervousness.

He would guard her all right. If anyone dared to make her their own—namely a certain young aristocrat—they could be certain that an "accident" would happen to them sooner or later.

_In fact, I almost wish he _would_ make a move_, he thought, a thin smile stretching his lips. _It would be _so_ satisfying to see him dangle from the end of a rope…_

**Owari**

**Author's Notes:** So, what all do you think? I think I may have weakened a bit at the end, but overall, I'm satisfied with it. This fic is shorter than most of my more recent one-shots, but I didn't want it to be too long. I just wanted something relatively quick to write, since I haven't posted in a while and something short is better to ease back into the writing habit with than something long. Now, I'd of course like to know what you think of this, so let me know in a review or an email, onegai shimasu!


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